IN THE YEAR 1715. 1 Dear, damn'd, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease:
As when that hero, who, in each campaign, Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
I've often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend,
Celia, we know, is sixty-five, Yet Celia's face is seventeen; Thus winter in her breast must live,
Friend, for your epitaphs I'm grieved, Where still so much is said; One half will never be believed,
To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide,
SHE. Yes, we have lived--one pang, and then we part! May Heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart.
If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd, And every opening virtue blooming round, Could save a parent's justest pride from fate,
Women ben full of Ragerie, Yet swinken not sans secresie. Thilke Moral shall ye understand,
1 Yes, I beheld the Athenian queen Descend in all her sober charms; 'And take,' she said, and smiled serene,
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air,
In amaze Lost I gaze! Can our eyes
I know a thing that's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman,
What god, what genius did the pencil move, When Kneller painted these? 'Twas friendship, warm as Phoebus, kind as Love,
Phryne had talents for mankind, Open she was, and unconfin'd, Like some free port of trade:
1 Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit
Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command, Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand? Must then her name the wretched writer prove,
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air
She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs; When the fair consort of her son replies: 'Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan,
Part I What dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs, What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things,
Part 1 What dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs, What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things,
To thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band, Condemn'd to labour in a barbarous land, Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays,
Resign'd to live, prepar'd to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run
1 With no poetic ardour fired, I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he loved, or here expired,
With no poetic ardour fir'd I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,
The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign; Of all the virgins of the sylvan train None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,